


By The Light of the Silvery Moon

by Keesha



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:58:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8414731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keesha/pseuds/Keesha
Summary: On a dark and stormy night, the four musketeers come across a isolated house in the woods. Ok, actually it is a beautiful moon -lit night and the house is in the middle of a field, but you get the idea. For the Fête des Mousquetaires competition "Monsters and Manes" challenge.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my awesome beta, Mountain Cat, who risked nightmares to proof read this tale.

The four Inseparables were on an easy mission, delivering a letter to one of the nobility who was a favorite of the King. The estate was about a day's ride from Paris proper, out in the rolling countryside. The Comte, after Athos handed him the scroll, asked them to wait for a reply. By the time the response was penned, dried, folded, and sealed the sun was already lost over the horizon. They debated about camping for the night and heading back to town at first light, but when the harvest moon rose like an enormous round melon, illuminating the ground as if it were day, they decided to ride through the night to return home.

The first two hours of the trip back were going well as they rode along watching the moon as it rose through the atmosphere, shifting from blood red, to orange, and finally settling on its normal off-white color. Athos and d’Artagnan were riding side-by-side on the narrow track that wound a few meters above a small river. Behind them were Aramis and Porthos who, as usual, were bantering, quietly. The two leading musketeers rode in silence, listening to their brethren joshing each other and observing the raging river below, which was swollen due to the heavy rains a day prior. They had not come this way, but chose to go back to Paris on this trail for it was a somewhat more direct route. 

Athos, who was riding on the edge of the track closest to the river, suddenly felt his horse stumble. The black stallion's front legs folded under him, and he dropped to his knees. Athos was thrown from the saddle, over the horse's shoulder, grazing his head on a rock when he hit the ground. Losing consciousness, he lay still on the damp, leaf-covered ground. 

The black stallion scrambled to his feet, eyes white rimmed and wild from the unanticipated mishap. Aramis and Porthos pulled up in time to avoid the portion of the trail that had crumbled away in front of them due to the previous day's rains. Leaping from their saddles, they cautiously picked their way across the washed-out soil, heading towards the downed musketeer.

Stripping off his gloves and tucking them in his belt, Aramis reached out his bare fingers to check Athos' pulse. Already he could see Athos' eyes fluttering as the man struggled to regain consciousness. As the swordsman became more responsive, he let out a low moan and tried to sit up; Aramis gently helped him achieve his goal.

Once upright, Aramis told him to stay still while he ascertained the damage done to the fallen musketeer by the light of the silvery moon. A small trickle of blood ran down the side of Athos’ face, originating from under his shaggy mop. The medic didn’t think it was too serious judging by how rapidly Athos was recovering. Already, the stoic swordsman was trying to escape Aramis’ examination by standing. 

Once on this feet, Athos immediately made his way over to where d’Artagnan was carefully running his hands over Roger, especially his legs, checking for swelling and other potential damage. Finally, D'Artagnan finished his examination and turned to look at Athos. 

"You're hurt," d'Artagnan noted looking at the blood on the side of Athos' face. 

“I’m fine,” Athos declared, turning away to avoid scrutiny, instead examining the trail behind them. 

Porthos, following his gaze, said, “Rain musta made the dirt unstable. It collapsed under the weight of the horses.”

“Roger?,” Athos suddenly blurted out as he remembered he wasn't the only one to have taken a spill. 

 

“A bit battered and bruised. Rather like his rider,” the youngest said with a wry grin. “But, I don’t think he is hurt bad.” 

D’Artagnan gathered the reins and led Roger a few steps; the horse followed him willingly though he was definitely favoring his left front leg. Stopping, d’Artagnan ran his hand over the leg again, this time noting some swelling around the fetlock area. Straightening, he patted the horse on the shoulder before turning to face his three brothers. 

“He’ll be fine if we take it slow. But he shouldn’t be ridden. Best not to put any more weight on that leg than necessary,” d’Artagnan declared as he glanced over at his mentor. “Looks like we’re riding double.”

Even though Athos hated the idea, he understood the need for it and wasn’t so selfish that he’d jeopardize his horse’s well-being.

“I agree,” Aramis said as he clamped a hand on Athos’ shoulder. “But he will be riding with me so I can keep an eye on him. Make sure he is truly…fine.”

Scowling and growling got him nowhere and eventually the swordsman found himself standing next to Fidget as Aramis pulled a cloth out of his saddlebag, wet it with water from his canteen and proceeded to scrub the blood off Athos' face. When the irritated patient tried to take the rag and do it himself, the medic swatted his hands away. In the meantime, d’Artagnan mounted and Porthos handed him Roger’s reins before moving over to Aramis’ horse. Athos eyed the larger man, having a sneaking suspicion why he was standing next to them.

“Thought I’d give you a leg up.” Porthos counted in his head, one…two...three, but was surprised when Athos didn’t protest.

Aramis mounted first and then the largest musketeer helped the swordsman up behind the marksman. After Porthos was astride his rangy gelding, they slowly started out again, working their way around the collapsed part of the trail and continuing their journey. 

A while later, realizing his head was sagging against Aramis’ shoulder, Athos made a conscious effort to lift it, because even after being friends and brothers for years, he hated displaying any weakness. As he peered over the marksman’s shoulder, he came to the conclusion he must have hit his head harder than he thought. The full moon under which they were riding was playing peek-a-boo with the increasing clouds. Suddenly the orb, like a flash of lightening, burst forth from behind the cloud cover and its silvery light illuminated a ramshackle house that Athos would have sworn was not there a second ago. 

Aramis, feeling the weight of his brother’s head being removed from the back of his shoulder blade, asked, “Are you all right?” The medic musketeer was concerned about the state of his brother, who had taken a nasty fall less than an hour ago.

Scowling, even though it couldn’t be seen by the inquirer, Athos grunted out a clipped, “Yes.” However, it wasn’t really the truth for his head did hurt and now he was seeing things.

“There is a house up ahead,” Porthos pointed out and Athos gave a sigh of relief that he wasn’t the only one seeing it. “I say we stop there for the night. Head out at dawn.”

Almost as if the weather was trying to support Porthos’ suggestion, the moon totally disappeared behind the clouds and an eerie ground fog rose and swirled around their horses' legs. The temperature, which had been fairly moderate, dropped fifteen degrees and the wind picked up. The decision was a foregone conclusion when heavy raindrops began to splatter on them.

Urging their horses forward at a slightly faster pace, they headed towards the lone house in the field. There were no out buildings, just a single, two story house in what seemed like the middle of nowhere. As they got closer, it appeared it was empty based on the condition of the house, which had cracked windows, sagging shutters and a gaping door. 

There was a low, covered porch running along the front of the house and Porthos, who reached it first, climbed up the three shallow stairs and examined the structure. “I think it is sturdy enough to hold the horses. It'll give them some shelter.”

Dismounting, Athos took Roger’s reins from d’Artagnan and urged his favorite stallion up the shallow stairs onto the porch. The other three horses obediently followed their owners until all were out of the rain. With an apologetic pat, they didn’t untack their mounts, but only loosened their girths. 

Once the horses were settled, the four men walked over to the half-closed door and pushed it wide. With a spine shivering shriek, the heavy wooden door swung open giving the men a glance at the inside the house. Almost as if someone was expecting them, two candles, in small holders, along with a flint were sitting on a small table in the entry foyer. Porthos lit the candles, kept one and handed the other to Aramis.

“As there are only two candles, d’Artagnan and I will head upstairs to look for signs of life and you and Athos look around down here,” Aramis instructed Porthos, who nodded to show he agreed. 

Aramis and d’Artagnan disappeared up the stairway, while Athos and Porthos began checking out the rooms on the ground floor. They passed through a kitchen, the dining room, and were investigating what appeared to be a drawing room when the streetfighter bumped into a table he didn’t see in the dim light, knocking the container that was sitting on it to the floor. The vessel shattered on the floor and as it broke, the chandelier in the room simultaneously blazed forth with light. 

“What the hell?” Athos rumbled as he looked up at the light.

As the suddenly blazing chandelier had his attention, the swordsman failed to notice a swirling of black dots that coalesced into a black shadow and sped towards Porthos, who was also gazing upwards. The black mist covered Porthos in an insidious manner before sinking into his skin. Suddenly, his normally dark brown eyes flashed red, like the depths of hell. 

An evil chuckle escaped from the streetfighter’s lips drawing Athos’ attention from the chandelier to his brother. “Porthos?” Athos questioned, immediately sensing something was wrong.

The large musketeer began flexing his muscles and stumbling around the room, as if moving was a new experience. “It has been so long. An eternity. But now I am free.”

The voice was, but wasn’t, Porthos’. Narrowing his eyes, the swordsman asked, “Are you all right?”

The dark eyes that focused on him made Athos’ blood run cold. “I have never been better. . . Athos.”

The hesitancy Porthos showed in saying his name made Athos think for a moment that the streetfighter had forgotten it. The swordsman was really beginning to believe he had hit his head too hard. Why would Porthos forget his name? The large musketeer hadn't hit his head.

With cat-like grace that seemed in direct contrast to the fumbling a few minutes ago, Porthos moved until he was standing less than a foot in front of Athos. “Oliver d’Athos de la Fére. The Comte de la Fére. Or make that former Comte, though technically once a Comte always a Comte I guess.”

Totally confused by what was happening, Athos stood very still, matching stare for stare with his friend.

“Do you know, Athos, what it is like to live in misery for years? Waiting. Wondering. Praying for release? Well not praying I suppose, that is not my . . . inclination.” 

Turning away, the streetfighter walked away towards the shuttered window, as he continued to speak. “You lose all concept of time.” Looking at the closed window he asked? “What year is it?”

The swordsman’s astonishment was clearly evident as he slowly answered, “1632.” Striding across the room, he grabbed his friend by the shoulder and spun him around. “What is wrong with you, Porthos?”

The man now facing him gave him a puzzled look before laughing. “Oh, is Porthos the name of the previous inhabitant of this body?” Shrugging off Athos’ hand he dismissively declared, “Porthos is gone.” 

Scrubbing a hand over his aching head, Athos had no idea what to make of this situation. Was he dreaming? Was he lying unconscious somewhere hallucinating? He became even more bewildered when Porthos spoke once more as if he could read his innermost secrets.

“No. You are not dreaming. If you were dreaming it would be about Anne, wouldn’t it. Her milky white skin. Her lovely green eyes. Her rosy red lips fervently kissing you; whispering sweet lies in your ear. Telling you how much she loves you. Those long fingers lightly trailing across your chest. Downwards. That is what you would dream, isn’t it, Olivier.”

Taking a fumbling step backwards as if propelled by the sheer intimacy of the words pouring forth from Porthos’ mouth, the swordsman stumbled into a low settee, however he managed to keep his balance and not fall. Though he felt stupid doing so, in a shaking voice he asked, “Who are you?”

“Me? I’m Belzek. Your friend Porthos set me free when he kindly knocked over that container where I had been imprisoned.” A feral grin spread across the streetfighter's face, transforming it into a mask of horror. “Maybe you are familiar with some my work. The black death? I believe one of the Kings of France blamed it on a ‘great pestilence in the air’. Paris 1466?”

Cocking his head to the side, Porthos appeared to be studying Athos for a moment before laughing in delight. “I do so love your mind, Athos. You will be my perfect foil. Before I leave this house tonight, you will fully restore my powers, which I admit, have grown weak during my incarceration.”

In a tone that showed he couldn’t believe what he was about to say, Athos exclaimed, “You are the devil?”

Porthos chuckled once more as he moved across the room towards the fireplace, which he lit with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “No. I am not the master, but merely one of his minions.” The demon paused a moment reading the swordsman’s thoughts, which were unguarded. “So you don’t get along with God, do you.”

“This is not happening,” Athos muttered as he turned away from Porthos, closing his eyes and running a trembling hand over his face. “I’m dreaming.”

Faster than was humanly possible, Porthos appeared in front of him to place his large hands on the swordsman. The fingers clutching Athos’ leather covered shoulders were icy cold and sent shivers down his spine. 

“I was imprisoned in that container by a demon-hunter ages ago. Now I am free and you, my friend, are going to help restore my power before I go out into the world once more to wreak havoc.”

Wrenching out of the demon’s grip, Athos drew his pistol and aimed it at the demon-Porthos. “I will never help you.”

With that infuriating laugh that grated on Athos’ raw nerves, Porthos avowed, “Oh you will. In fact, you are doing so at this very moment. You see, I feed on the guilt of others. Like a drug. It makes me powerful. And the amount of guilt in you, my friend, is astonishing. Even now you are feeling guilty. If only you hadn’t fallen off your horse, forcing your brothers to seek shelter in this house. Your mind is a labyrinth of shame and remorse. Each and every one of your regrets makes me that much stronger.”

“No,” Athos cried out hoarsely.

“Oh please, Athos You can’t even help yourself. Your father long ago planted the seeds of worthlessness in your very soul and your life has done nothing but nurture them.”

The gun pointed at Porthos was shaking in Athos’ grip. The demon gave another wave of his hand and the weapon discharged at the same time that a door elsewhere in the house slammed, camouflaging the sound of the shot. The bullet burrowed into the streetfighter’s torso. With a horrified shout, Athos dropped the gun on the floor, his eyes glued on the spot where the bullet had entered his brother’s chest. Blood quickly welled forth, covering the front of Porthos jacket. The demon swayed as if he were about to collapse on the floor. Then that evil laugh that so grated on Athos’ nerves rang forth as Porthos stood fully upright and all signs of the bullet wound disappeared.

“That was wonderful, Athos. The guilt in your mind fed me well.” The gun flew off the floor, back onto the swordsman's weapons belt. “Shall we do that again? My hunger is great after so many years of confinement.”

Drawing the pistol from his belt, Athos found it was primed and ready to fire. Not even imagining how to begin to comprehend what was occurring here, he stared numbly at Porthos, the gun dangling in his hand.

Proving once more he could partially read Athos’ mind, the demon explained, “Yes, you did fire the gun. Yes, the bullet hit me. And no it didn’t hurt me. You can’t kill me, Athos. But, I can kill you.” As if to prove his point, Porthos one-handedly grabbed Athos by the front of his jacket, lifted him off the ground with ease and flung him across the drawing room into the wall as if he weighed no more than a child’s rag doll. 

Athos slammed into the wall and slid down onto the floor where he tried to keep the black curtain forming in front of his eyes from drawing shut. Porthos closed the distance between them, reached down, picked the dazed man up and tossed him across the room once more. This time when Athos hit the wall he did pass out. 

The demon grimaced, realizing in his zeal that he had gone too far. He couldn’t feed off the man’s guilt if he were unconscious. However, it had felt so good to torture someone after being confined for so long he had let himself get carried away. With a sigh, he walked over to the fireplace, reached a hand into the blaze and drew forth a red-hot ember the size of a clenched fist. Carrying it back over to where the unconscious musketeer lay, he ripped open Athos’ shirt and jacket and pressed the glowing ember against the pale skin of his left shoulder. The smell and sizzle of the searing flesh reminded the demon of his home in hell.

The excruciating pain had the intended effect, forcing the swordsman awake. Athos screamed in agony as he became conscious. Porthos, having achieved his goal, casually tossed the burning coal back into the fireplace, his gloved fingers showing no sign that he had been holding the fiery object.

“Oh good. You’re awake. It’s hard to feed up off you when you are unconscious.” Bending, he lifted Athos to his feet then handed him his gun, which the musketeer had dropped. “Don't forget your pistol." The weapon flew off the floor and clipped itself to Athos' belt. "We aren't done with it yet. Let’s go find the others shall we.” Releasing the musketeer who sagged against the wall when he did so, the demon strode across the room to the door. “Coming? I need you to watch me torturing your brothers,” he threw back over his shoulder as he walked out of the room.

Athos pushed off the wall and staggered after Porthos, or whatever it was that was inhabiting his best friend. He ached from head to toe and his left shoulder felt as it were covered in hot molten lava, but he used his pain to push past the boundaries of his mind. Even if he and God had parted ways, he believed in the existence of God, and heaven and hell, especially hell because he knew he’d be spending eternity there for his sins. And demons, in hell, torturing him wasn’t too much of a stretch for his mind. But the idea of a demon, cooped up in a bottle, accidentally released by Porthos, now roaming this house intending to brutalize his brothers, was pushing him over the edge. This couldn’t be real. Drawing his pistol because he couldn’t think what else to do, Athos stalked out into the hallway where he found the demon, back to him, staring up the stairwell. 

“Please, Athos,” the demon sighed noting the gun in the musketeer' hand. “Haven’t we done this already. You can’t kill me by shooting me. However, what would be more interesting is to have you shoot one of your other brothers.” 

Suddenly, Athos found the gun in his hand being pointed at d’Artagnan’s head as his youngest brother walked onto the landing to see what was going on in the foyer below. “No! d’Artagnan! Run!” the swordsman screamed as he fought the invisible power which was trying to make him pull the trigger and shoot the Gascon.

D’Artagnan didn’t understand why Athos was pointing his pistol at him and yelling at him to run. Was there an unseen danger behind him? But trusting his mentor's word, the lad quickly dove sideways as the gun went off and the bullet tore into the wall behind where he had just been standing.

“How can you be doing this?” Athos demanded of demon-Porthos, appalled that he had been forced to shoot at d’Artagnan against his will. His horror was slowly turning to defiance; he was angry that he was being manipulated.

With a shrug, the streetfighter focused his attention on Athos. “I’m a demon. God has his Angels and Lucifer has us.” 

The demon’s eyes narrowed as he studied the man in front of him who, despite everything that had happened so far, was losing his fear and becoming openly defiant. This was going to be interesting. Not that he was planning to inform the swordsman, but this mere human had almost managed resist his control. That was quite unusual and a little unsettling for the demon, who wasn’t used to being challenged, except occasionally by a few overzealous, misguided priests.

At the sound of the gun shot, Aramis came running out of the room he’d been searching to see what was going on. He saw Athos holding the smoking pistol and d’Artagnan on the floor where he had dived to avoid the bullet.

“Athos!” he yelled in astonishment. 

Porthos gave an evil grin that could only be seen by Athos before lurching forward to rip the pistol from surprised musketeer’s hand. “Aramis,” he yelled with concern as he turned to face the marksman standing above. “I think there is something wrong with Athos. He tried to shoot the d'Artagnan."

Athos, who was struggling to fight the haziness invading his aching head, simply stood there in shock as the demon turned the tables on him by lying to his brothers. Aramis, after confirming d’Artagnan was unharmed, raced down the stairs to Athos’ side. The demon grinned inwardly. The amount of guilt in the room was exhilarating.

“Athos. Why did you shoot at d’Artagnan?” Aramis believed there must be a logical explanation. Maybe it was related to his earlier head wound.

“I didn’t,” Athos ground out.

Porthos, pretending to be sympathetic, walked over and placed a hand on Athos’ arm. “Yes, you did.”

By touching the swordsman, the demon was better able to control the stubborn man. Slowly, he began to compel Athos to reach behind his back with his free hand and draw his main gauche. Athos’ green eyes flared with panic as he felt the urge being forced upon him.

“Stop it!,” he yelled at the demon, though Aramis, who had been examining the wound on his head thought the comment was aimed at him.

“I have to take a better look at this wound,” the medic stated as he brushed Athos’ wavy hair back from his forehead, oblivious to the battle of wills going on between Athos and the demon-Porthos.

Try as he might to resist, Athos found the dagger in his hand and slowly sliding out of its sheath. Even though he was fighting as hard as he could, he knew he was losing ground to the demon trying to control his mind. In order to keep his brothers safe, Athos ripped his arm free from Porthos’ grasp, stumbling backwards away from them. As soon as Porthos was no longer in physical contact with him, Athos felt himself gaining more control over his mind, able to resist the buzz that was pressing on his brain.

“Athos, what is wrong with you? I need to examine that wound. Either standstill, or I will have Porthos and d’Artagnan restrain you,” the medic musketeer threatened the wild-eyed man.

D’Artagnan, who had joined them in the foyer, was bewildered by his mentor’s behavior. “Athos. What's wrong? Let Aramis look at that gash.” 

Like a cornered animal, Athos was trembling as he backed away from his three brothers. “That is not Porthos.”

Aramis and d’Artagnan exchanged confused glances before looking at Porthos who shrugged and said, “He’s been saying that. That’s what made me think he's hurt more than he is letting on. You know he hides his injures from us because he doesn’t want us to worry.”

Athos, who had been distracted by the demon-Porthos’ speech, felt his control slip and the next thing he knew he was brandishing his dagger at Aramis, who jumped back out of the way. Clamping down on his mind, Athos forced his hand to swing the dagger downward, away from his brothers. The demon took advantage of the situation and achieved just enough control over the swordsman to force him to drive the knife into his own thigh. Athos watched helplessly as he slashed the blade into his own leg, unable to stop his hand.

Three people yelled, two in surprise and one in pain, Porthos being the only one to remain silent. Taking advantage of the momentary confusion, the streetfighter moved over to Athos and took away his rapier and the main gauche. “For your own safety…and ours,” he explained as he handed the items to d’Artagnan, who took them sheepishly. 

“I’ll keep them safe, Athos,” the Gascon awkwardly promised him.

“I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m trying to protect you. From him!” Athos exclaimed, pointing his shaking finger at Porthos. “Something is wrong with him.”

“Says the man that just drove a knife into his own flesh,” Porthos pointed out as he shook his head sadly.

Aramis took Athos by the arm and gently propelled the injured man back into the drawing room. “How about you sit over there and let me look at that gash in your leg.”

Almost as if he had forgotten about it, Athos glanced down at the bloodstain on his pants then up at Aramis. “It’s nothing,” he declared, though he let Aramis guide him over to the settee in the drawing room.

Aramis waxed philosophical. “Well nothing can become something if not taken care of.”

“Doesn’t it bother you that in a supposedly empty house, the chandelier is fully lighted?” Athos demanded of two of his brothers.

In an apologetic tone, d’Artagnan said, “Athos, what chandelier?”

“That one,” Athos said looking up at the ceiling and pointing…at nothing. The room was only illuminated by the two candles that were originally in the hallway. “But it was there. Fully lit.”

Aramis gazed at his friend with a bit of pity. “I think what Athos means to say is a room like this is dark, without a chandelier. D’Artagnan, why don’t you light a few of those sconces on the wall.”

“And the fireplace?” Athos peered at the cold stone hearth that had a fire in it when he had left only a few minute ago.

“An excellent idea,” Aramis agreed in a soothing voice, as if he were humoring the swordsman. “Porthos, start a fire. This is as good a place as any to sleep tonight.”

Athos ignored Aramis, who was enlarging the opening in his pant leg to get a better look at the stab wound, in order to keep an eye on Porthos. The streetfighter went over to the fireplace and when d’Artagnan’s and Aramis’ attentions were elsewhere, he waved his hand and brought forth the flames without ever touching a flint.

Athos’ eyes narrowed at the demon’s magic show. The demon-Porthos grinned evilly back at him. “D’Artagnan,” Athos called out to the lad as he moved about the space lighting the candles. “Don’t you find it odd that Porthos has a fire started already?”

The Gascon glanced over at the climbing flames and shrugged. “He’s good at it.”

“And there was already logs and tinder in place,” Porthos added helpfully.

Athos’ green eyes settled on Aramis, who simply backed up the ex-farmer’s statement. “Porthos is good at making a fire.”

“But he just snapped his fingers and the flames appeared,” Athos pleaded with Aramis, even though he knew how ridiculous it sounded. Aramis’ skillful finger tips brushed the swordsman’s forehead. “I don’t have a fever,” Athos groused.

Aramis rose from where he was sitting next to Athos on the couch examining the wound and gave him a pat on the arm. “Sit tight. I’m going to nip out to get my saddlebags and some supplies.”

D’Artagnan came over to stand by Athos, his face a mask of concern. “You need to tell us when you are hurt, Athos,” he gently scolded. “Isn’t that what you've told me a hundred times?”

The swordsman wasn’t listening to d’Artagnan, but had his full attention focused on Porthos, who was standing across the room leaning against the fireplace’s mantle. Just to shock Athos and keep him off-balance, the demon-Porthos stuck his leg in the flames, letting his pants catch on fire. Unable to stop himself, Athos bolted from the couch to extinguish the flames, but a small mental assist from the demon had him crashing into d’Artagnan instead, knocking them both to the floor. Athos caught his side on the low table near the couch and a wave a pain shot through his body. The demon used Athos’ physical agony against him. He had already figured out that the swordsman’s ability to fight off his control weakened when Athos was in pain. So the demon took advantage of the mental lapse and suggested that Athos should strangle the Gascon.

Without even realizing what he was doing, Athos found his hands around d’Artagnan’s throat, squeezing. The lad was shocked to find his best friend’s hands around his neck trying to hurt him and he didn’t immediately try to fight him off. By the time d’Artagnan started to fight back, black spot were dancing in front of his eyes. 

The door to the house slammed shut and Porthos heard Aramis’ footsteps coming down the hallway. Waiting for just the right moment, so as to allow the medic to get a glimpse of what was going on first, Porthos sprang across the room, ripped Athos off of the lad and flung the swordsman roughly aside into the wall. Feigning great concern, he dropped to his knees next to d’Artagnan and cradled his upper body against his own chest. He was slightly annoyed the young man was still alive, for his death would have driven Athos over the edge in terms of guilt and the demon could have lapped up all that delightful energy. 

Schooling his face to show nothing but concern, demon-Porthos glanced up at Aramis. “Athos is not right Aramis. He was sitting there all quiet. Then when you slammed the door he suddenly he leapt up, knocked the pup over and started choking him.” 

Athos, who was lying in a miserable ball near the base of the wall croaked, “He’s lying.”

Porthos rolled his eyes at Aramis, as he helped the recovering d’Artagnan up and onto the sofa. The lad was rubbing his throat and already dark finger prints were starting to form under the skin. Aramis grabbed his canteen which was nearby, took off the lid and offered it to the man.

“What happened, d’Artagnan,” Aramis asked, after the Gascon had painfully swallowed a few sips of water.

“I don’t know. One moment Athos was sitting there and the next, well as Porthos said, he knocked me to the floor and started…” d’Artagnan’s voice trailed off as he looked at the huddled form of the man who had saved his life more times than he could count. “He couldn’t have meant to… I mean he must have hit his head harder than we thought…” Again, his voice trailed off in misery, feeling bad about accusing his brother.

Propping himself up against the wall, Athos looked over at his three brothers, well two brothers and one demon-possessed impostor. He knew what he was about to say was going to sound crazy, but he spoke anyway. “That’s not Porthos. It’s a demon that has taken control of his body. Porthos, the real Porthos, knocked over a vessel and let this demon lose. He took over our brother’s body and is using him to manipulate me…us… to regain his power.”

“And how,” Aramis asked gently, “are we helping to build a demon’s power.”

Blinking a few times before running his hand through his hair, Athos admitted. “I don’t know. He didn’t tell me that part exactly, but it has to do with guilt.”

“Guilt?” Aramis pressed, though it was clear from his tone he didn’t believe a word being spoken.

Athos let his head sink back against the wall. “You don’t believe me,” he said flatly.

“Have you considered, perhaps, that the blow you received to the head earlier might have affected your judgement?” d’Artagnan asked in a kindly manner.

Athos lifted his aching head off the wall and blearily watched Porthos, who was standing behind the others, grinning vilely, knowing no one was believing the swordsman. Athos let his eyes roam around the room as he desperately sought a solution to this situation. His eyes lit upon Aramis’ saddlebags, which the marksman had brought into the room. Aramis, being a man of faith, kept a few religious items with him, such as his cross. The swordsman also knew the devout Catholic had a pilfered bottle of holy water, for they had teased him often enough about stealing it.

Athos knew nothing about demons, still not even convinced what he was seeing here was real. But real or dream, he had to make it stop. The demon had told him that demons were servants of Lucifer, so it made some sense to Athos’ muddled mind, that if they were the opposite of God, maybe they wouldn’t like Godly objects, like the holy water and the cross. The swordsman decided to test his theory and see what the demon-Porthos’ reaction would be to a cross. 

“Perhaps you are right. Maybe I did hit my head too hard and it is impairing my judgement,” Athos conceded, his eyes focused on his fingers which he nervously twisted together.

The demon’s eyes narrowed for he could sense the swordsman was up to something, but Athos was guarding his thoughts and the demon was unable to read them. Aramis and d’Artagnan were overjoyed to see their brother coming to his senses, and they hurried over, assisting him to rise from the floor, and move back onto the settee. 

“Mind the ribs,” Athos lightly scolded d'Artagnan when he wrapped his arms around Athos' midsection to help support him.

Once settled on the couch, Athos was the model patient, allowing Aramis to work on the gashes on his head and leg, put a salve on the burn on his shoulder, which Aramis found puzzling in its origin, as well as wrap his ribs. Through the ministrations, Porthos stayed slightly to one side, watching and waiting to see where this was going. Every now and then he pressed against the swordsman's mind, but Athos managed to fend off the intrusions. The demon knew he was very weak from his confinement and that the man on the couch was also very strong in his convictions, even if they weren’t religious-based. There was something driving this man, and though the demon couldn’t put his finger on it, the man suppressed inside, the real Porthos, knew exactly what it was; love for his brothers. A love so great Athos, or any of them, would die without hesitation for the others. 

Thinking of no way to get hold of Aramis’ cross unobtrusively, Athos decided just to ask for it openly. They already thought his mind had been affected by his earlier fall. Might-as-well use it to his advantage now. After he was bandaged and settled on the couch, he asked Aramis, “Might I see your cross for a few minutes. It is an evil night and I’d like to reflect upon it.”

Porthos didn’t know where this was going, but a quick scan of the minds of Aramis and d’Artagnan told him this was a highly unusual request by Athos. “You don’t care about God,” the demon-Porthos accused the swordsman, using the information he had gleaned from Athos’ mind earlier in the night. “You and God have parted ways. Why do you want the cross?”

Aramis rose, walked over to his saddlebags, which were sitting on the table and rummaged through them until he found his cross. Lifting it to his lips, he silently made a quick prayer to God before reverently kissing the object. Strangely, he thought he heard a soft moan from Porthos. Chalking it up to long and tiring night, he walked over to Athos. “If Athos feels a need for prayer, it will do him no harm. ‘But in their distress they turned to the LORD God of Israel, and they sought Him, and He let them find Him,’” Aramis quoted from Chronicles as he handed his friend his cross. “Would you like me to pray with you, Athos?”

The swordsman, who was rubbing the cross with his forefinger, looked up at his brother saying, “Thank you, but I fear I must do this alone.” 

Without warning, Athos launched his body from the couch, punching Porthos soundly in the gut and knocking him to the floor. Sitting upon the downed man’s chest, he pressed the cross onto Porthos’ forehead. Immediately, the demon-Porthos let out a blood curdling scream as the skin on his forehead darkened and sizzled as the holy relic burned his demonic soul.

The other two musketeers were spellbound, watching as smoke rose from where the cross was burning into Porthos’ face. The demon, having overcome his initial surprise, bucked under Athos trying to dislodge the swordsman. Athos had a sinking feeling the cross wasn’t going to be enough to banish this demon, at least when wielded by someone who had as little faith as he did. 

He screamed above the shrieking of Porthos. “D’Artagnan, come help hold down his legs. Aramis, get the holy water. Sprinkle it on Porthos and then pray with all your heart for this demon to leave our brother.”

The two men remained momentarily stunned. Demon? Athos thought Porthos was possessed by a demon? As outlandish as it sounded, the cross burning itself into Porthos' forehead did give credence to the crazy idea. While they were hesitating, the demon managed to wrench loose his arm from where Athos’ legs were trapping it against his side and slammed his giant fist into the side of Athos’ head. The swordsman tumbled off the streetfighter’s chest onto the floor. With a mighty roar, the demon-Porthos ripped the cross off of his head and threw it across the room into the blazing fireplace.

Those actions were enough to unfreeze Aramis’ mind and he scrambled to his bag to secure the small vial of holy water. Already praying under his breath, he spun around to face Porthos. His breath caught in his throat when he saw the red eyes of the demon peering out from his brother’s beloved face. “My God.” Uncapping the bottle, he flung some of the consecrated water on the demon-Porthos’ bare skin where it caused the flesh to bubble and burn. The squeal the demon let out was ear-splitting, but Aramis kept fervently praying to his God and sprinkling holy water on the beast. When the bottle was nearly empty he flung it at the demon’s face.

D’Artagnan moved over to where the stunned Athos was huddled on the floor, sword drawn to protect his brother should the demon head in his direction. He too was urgently praying under his breath to God for their deliverance. The only two people not praying were the demon and the stunned Athos, though it was questionable if Athos, even had he been more aware, would have been doing so anyway 

Had the demon not been so weakened by his long confinement and had not the love between these brothers been so strong, the demon probably would have prevailed. But the power of love, for one’s God and one’s brothers, overcame the evil demon and he left Porthos. Aramis immediately knelt at his brother’s side, cradling his head. 

A concentrated black cloud with red glowing eyes angrily flew about the parlor, unable to penetrate the body and soul of any of the other men in the room. They were aware of the demon now and their love for each other made them inviolable. Gradually, the ominous cloud grew fainter and fainter until it disintegrated into nothingness. The fire in the fireplace went out and the four men were left alone in the flickering light of the candles that d’Artagnan had lit earlier. 

Aramis helped Porthos to his feet, noting that the minute the demon had fled from him the cross burned into his forehead had disappeared and the blistered skin from the holy water was healed. The two musketeers slowly moved over to where Athos was cradled in d’Artagnan’s arms. Forgetting about Athos’ injuries, Porthos and Aramis sank to the floor and wrapped their own arms around their other two brothers, drawing strength and comfort from each other. 

Aramis’ eyes wandered to the empty fireplace, where his cross lay forlornly on the cold bricks. Nearby, the now empty vial of holy water rested, rolling from where Aramis flung it. This whole night seemed surreal. Offering up another prayer to his God, he hugged his brothers even tighter.

Finally, when d’Artagnan noticed that Athos had passed out, they broke apart. Porthos tenderly gathered the bruised and battered swordsman in his arms and carried him to the couch. Aramis walked over to the fireplace and retrieved his cross and empty vial, tucking them safely away in his bag. After what they had seen tonight, he doubted he’d ever leave the garrison without them.

Athos’ green eyes fluttered open and he peered up into the three sets of brown eyes eagerly watching him. Blinking a couple of times, he tried to gather his wits about him. Something wasn’t adding up in his muddled mind. He was not inside a house as he expected, but judging by the dampness beneath him and the small rocks digging into his back, he was lying in the dirt. Instead of a plastered ceiling above him, he only saw swaying pine branches. There was the sounds of running water nearby along with the gentle snorting of horses. 

Totally confused, his eyes sought Porthos’ forehead, which appeared unblemished except for his normal scar. As he struggled to sit up, Athos felt for his thigh and found no knife wound. A deep breath told him his ribs were also uninjured. He was unable to reconcile what his mind was telling him as opposed to what his body was telling him.

Aramis, by the light of the silvery moon, which was so bright it gave a luster of midday to objects below, did his own examination. The medic pushed the brown, unruly hair off of Athos’ forehead to examine the small gash where the swordsman’s head had struck the rock on the ground when Roger fell. Undoing the surprisingly docile man’s doublet, he stuck his hand under the shirt to examine Athos’ ribs. 

“We are not in the house?” Athos ventured as Aramis was running his fingers over each rib to determine their status.

“House?” Porthos repeated, clearly confused. “We left the noble’s estate and have been riding for at least two hours.”

Aramis moved his examination to the other side of Athos’ ribcage. “And you feel… all right…Porthos?” Athos queried the streetfighter after a few moments of silence.

“Me? I’m not the one that fell off his horse. That would be you,” Porthos good-naturedly ribbed him. 

"Fell?" Athos repeated numbly.

"Yes. Roger lost his footing and you tumbled over his shoulder," Porthos reiterated.

“Is Roger ok?” he asked looking at the Gascon.

D'Artagnan gave the downed musketeer a puzzled look. “He is fine, Athos. Not hurt in the least. I checked him over very thoroughly while you were unconscious. I knew you’d be concerned for his well-being.” 

Athos' confused eyes sought out Aramis, who had let his shirt drop back into place and was sitting back on his heels. “How long was I out, Aramis?” The medic was a bit surprised by the mixture of urgency and desperation in his brother’s tone.

“Maybe twenty minutes. We didn’t want to move you until you woke and told us if you were more seriously injured then it seemed. It was a nasty fall. But, I am happy to say other than that gash on the forehead you seem to have no broken bones. How is your head?”

“Hurts,” Athos answered honestly, still too confused trying to reconcile what was in his brain with what seemed to be reality. 

“Are you up to riding? Or shall we look for someplace to stay for the night?” Aramis asked as he and Porthos helped the swordsman to stand. 

For a moment, Aramis felt the swordsman tense in his grip. Athos' eyes, wild and panicked with a look so uncharacteristic of the man, sought out Porthos. “No stopping. We have to ride. Now. For Paris. No stopping,” he repeated.

“What if I have to pee?” Porthos joshed Athos. 

The reaction from Athos was quite unusual and quite severe. He shook himself free of their hands, took a few steps away and in his best commander’s voice repeated. “There will be no stopping for anything!” Stomping away, he gathered Roger's reins, mounted, and impatiently waited for his brethren to do the same.

The four musketeers rode straight back to Paris without stopping. Athos sat rigidly in his saddle even though Aramis was sure he was feeling sore from his spill. However, when Aramis pulled alongside Roger and suggested that they stop for a few minutes so he could mix up a pain draught to ease the swordsman's discomfort, Athos rounded on him furiously, repeating his mantra of no stopping. All attempts at conversations were swiftly rebuffed and eventually his brothers left him to ride in peace, even though they were sure that something other than physical pain was bothering him.

By the time the weary quartet reached the garrison about mid-morning, both men and horses were exhausted. Athos had convinced himself on the long ride home that he had imagined everything about the demon, though he couldn’t stop his eyes from occasionally wandering over to examine Porthos. The streetfighter caught him doing it enough times that he finally asked the swordsman if something was amiss. That had simply caused Athos to scowl even deeper and focus harder on an imaginary point between Roger’s black ears.

Handing the horses off to the stable lads, the four musketeers made their way to Captain Treville’s office where Athos provided a concise report. The captain questioned his lieutenant about the dribble of blood still clinging to the side of his face and received the normal ‘I’m fine’ answer. Treville’s eyes sought out the medic of the group who gave a slight shrug to say it wasn’t too bad and he’d keep an eye on his stubborn friend. 

After the captain released them, Athos repulsed all his brothers offers of company, simply wanting to go to his quarters and clear his mind of all the demon nonsense that had embedded itself within. Demons, he scolded himself as he climbed the stairs to his quarters. He admitted his faith in God had long since vanished and for his mind to be inventing tales of demons was ludicrous. 

Once safely behind the door of his room, he sat heavily at his table for a few minutes, head cradled in his arms. Lifting his weary head just enough to peer around him, he discovered what he feared; he was out of wine. With a groan, he dropped his aching head back on his folded arms. 

He must have drifted off in that position for a while later, when a knock on his door woke him, he noted the shadows on the floor had lengthened. With a groan, he hauled his body out of the chair and opened the door to see his three brothers standing there, each holding a bottle of wine and one a basket of food.

“The wine can come in. You can go away,” he grouched at his friends even though he knew it would do no good since they piled through his door like eager puppies anyway.

The wine was opened and poured, food laid out on the table and the men spread about the room. There were only two chairs for they had never managed to convince Athos to get two more. Porthos and d’Artagnan sprawled in the chairs, letting them remain closest to the food, which was near and dear to their hearts and stomachs. Aramis and Athos sat on the bed, backs leaning against the wall where Athos’ family sword hung, each contentedly holding a glass of wine.

Athos’ shirt had come askew, hanging off his left shoulder and something there obviously caught the medic’s attention for he kept staring at it.

“Athos. What is that on your shoulder?” Aramis queried as he leaned closer.

With his free hand, Athos unsuccessfully attempted to fend off Aramis curious gaze not wanting to be bothered while he drank his wine. 

D’Artagnan rose from the table, brushing a few crumbs off his shirt, and walked over to the bed to see what was going on. Athos’ shirt still hung loose and he could just make out the mark to which Aramis was referring. With a swiftness that surprised Athos, because his attention was focused on swatting away Aramis' probing hands, the ex-farmer managed to pluck the wine glass from his mentor’s grasp. The lad walked away and set the still full glass on the table.

“You’ve told me, repeatedly, not to hide injuries. What are you hiding from us, Athos?” the youngest musketeer demanded as he rounded on his mentor.

“Nothing. Other than hitting my head, there is nothing wrong with me,” Athos insisted, having no clue why his brothers were behaving this way.

“Take off that shirt,” Aramis demanded, plucking at the swordsman’s sleeves.

Athos, since he had nothing to hide, stood and angrily drew the linen shirt over his head, not understanding why his brothers wouldn’t leave him alone to drink his wine. As his shirt cleared his head, a silence settled over the room and the swordsman found three sets of eyes staring at him, or at his left shoulder to be precise. Twisting his neck to see what was causing them to frown at him, Athos discovered the burn mark about the size of clenched fist on his skin. 

“What the hell?” he swore as he stared at the red, blistering mark. “Where did that come from?”

“You tell us,” d’Artagnan suggested, puzzled as to when Athos could have received such a painful looking burn and why he was hiding it from them.

“I have no clue,” Athos retorted though his eyes sought out Porthos, as if for some reason the answer lay there. 

“You simply can’t get burned that severely and not have a clue, Athos,” Aramis scolded him. “A wound such as that has to be causing you considerable pain.”

Strangely enough, until the wound had been pointed out to him, Athos actually hadn’t felt it. However now, as if to make up for lost time, it started throbbing. His mind went back to the demon dream. His brothers could tell by the look on his face, which wasn’t guarded for once, the swordsman was still hiding something.

Aramis, all business now, said. “It needs to be cleaned and bandaged and you’d better hope an infection doesn’t set in. You really need to take care of these types of wounds quickly, Athos. I have told you that a hundred times.”

Athos dropped back onto the edge of his bed, his head spinning. The whole episode of the demon had to have been simply a nightmare while he was unconscious. If that were so, then why did he have a burn on his shoulder, right where the demon-Porthos burned him with the ember from the fireplace? 

“What are you hiding from us, Athos?” Porthos demanded, walking over to the bed and towering over the sitting swordsman. 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Athos said slowly, his eyes wandering to the burn once more. 

Aramis moved to stand next to Porthos, while d’Artagnan dropped onto the bed next to him. 

With a noisy sigh, Athos ran a hand over his head. “You’d better sit down because you are not going to believe this. It makes no sense, and yet the burn…”

Pulling the two chairs over from the table, Porthos and Aramis sat and the men looked expectantly at Athos. 

“Porthos was a demon,” Athos began his tale, which caused Porthos to snort.

“I may be no Saint, but I ain’t no demon,” rebutted the streetfighter.

Athos gave him an eye roll and said, “I told you, you weren’t going to believe this.”

The swordsman told the tale and when he was done, he sank wearily against the wall and demanded the nearly full bottle of wine be turned over to him. As he chugged down the alcohol, his brothers talked amongst themselves, trying to come up with a plausible explanation. They finally decided that Athos must have somehow burned his shoulder when he returned to his room after the mission. 

Athos removed the bottle from his eager lips long enough to point out their assumption had to be wrong for there was no fire in his fireplace. As soon as he made his declaration, he looked over at the stone hearth knowing it would be cold as ice. He nearly dropped the wine bottle when he saw a blaze in it.

Aramis and d’Artagnan were facing the fireplace, leaving only Porthos staring at him.

“You’re welcome, Athos,” Porthos whispered, as his eyes briefly flashed red.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> Perhaps the flash of red was simply a reflection from the fireplace... or not.


End file.
